Independence Day Blues
by Vampire Catfish1
Summary: Every fourth of July since 1783, Scotland has looked after his wee brother as he slips into a depression over losing America and gets dead drunk. One night out of every year, Allistor actually acts like proper family to the kid he ended up raising. This is just another one of those nights... Oneshot (Rated T for Scotlands language)


Basically the description says it all. I tried to write as Scotland would think, so hopefully I pulled it off .

Also, if you can think of a better name hit me up. I'll love you forever and whatnot :3

Anyway, hope you enjoy :)

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Allistor sighed as he surveyed the room from the doorway while he finished his cigarette. Bookcases lined the walls, with stupid ornaments dividing the rows of gardening books and classics every now and then. A beige carpet, along with the white walls and flowery curtains gave the room a sickeningly 'homely' feeling that didn't suit his brother, and the chunky old TV that sat at the front of the room made it feel even more unnatural. It was all so English.

Thankfully, his brother had already drunk himself past the angry stage. Last time, Scotland had arrived in the middle of his usual 4th of July spree, earning himself a black eye and accidentally knocking out his brother when he reacted on instinct. It was just a good thing Arthur was used to the rough treatment after so many years of himself and Dylan ganging up on him, or the wee Brit would have probably died by now.

He walked into the room, casually side-stepping one of the many decorative pillows that Arthur had thrown across the room in his anger. It was a good thing Allistor had visited earlier and placed anything he thought was valuable in the cupboard under the stairs while Arthur was out buying the rum and whiskey. Though it seemed that the whiskey was not needed as, going by the state of the room, Allistor would not be joining his brother tonight.

Had it been any other day, he would have laughed at the sight of his brother silently hunched over, staring at his socks with a half-empty bottle of rum clutched between his thighs. He wore no trousers, – going by the smell of sick tainting the air, he assumed his drunk brother had removed them after the first bought of sickness had passed – a thin white shirt, open at the collar and those stupid black socks he loved so much had slipped around his ankles.

"Artie?" He called out softly, bending down to put out his cigarette on the ashtray he had put on the coffee table earlier that day. His brother looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and his nose, mouth and cheeks crusty with the usual tears, puke and snot that came when Arthur had been drinking. He smiled at him, knowing that no matter how badly he wanted to tease him, now was not the time. He had even left his phone at home, just in case he got the urge to take blackmail pictures for later use. He really was a good brother.

"Scottie?" He croaked, smiling slightly as Allistor stood before him. If he was so far gone that he was calling Allistor by that totally original nickname, there was no doubt that he needed to somehow pry the rum from him before he ended up slipping into a coma. It was obvious by the state of his voice that he had been sobbing furiously, probably screaming as well, as he did whenever he drank.

He kept the worry out of his voice as he raised an arm, ruffling his younger brothers hair, chuckling. "Look at you, you little runt." He answered in Gaelic, a language that only the oldest of the living countries could understand. He threw England a smirk before offering his brother a hand.  
Arthur looked at him blankly, probably barely aware of anything that was happening. He half threw his arm forward in no particular direction, Allistor quickly catching it and yanking his brother up from the sofa.

The skill it took to support Arthur as his legs gave way and to grab the bottle as it tipped forwards and fell to the floor without spilling a drop was something he knew he would brag about for ages when Wales called up to ask how Arthur was. He instantly decided, as he loosened his hold around the body of the bottle letting it slip down so he could catch it by its neck, that 'I'm a fucking ninja!' would be the way he would bait Wales into getting him to tell the story. He grinned as he tightened an arm around his brothers waist, leaning back slightly so as not to get any of the dried sick on his suit, while nimbly reaching back as far as he could to drop the bottle onto the coffee table.

"My God, lad." He said, grimacing as he turned back around. "You don't half reek." Arthur's only response was to groan slightly and grip tightly onto one of the white sashes Scotland wore over his suit.

Holding his breath, he manoeuvred his brother away from his body and bent down, scooping him up by the knees. This wasn't good. He had thought that his brother was as pale as himself because of a lack of sunlight, but just by lifting him up it was obvious that Arthur had lost a lot of weight since the last time he had carried him a few months ago.

He jostled him slightly so that Arthur would slip closer to his chest, making it easier to carry him, but it turned out to be a mistake. His brother groaned again, turning an odd shade of green as his cheeks puffing out slightly.

"Fuck!" Scotland growled, moving like lighting towards the bathroom door on the other side of the room, trying to be as smooth as possible so that his brother didn't hoy before he reached the toilet, or bath, or whatever fucking place was easiest to get to. It had been ages since Scotland had been around Englands house (he had only cleaned in the living room earlier that day), so he had no idea what to expect as he kicked open the door.

Quickly dropping Arthur's legs, he flipped his brother forward and, wrapping one arm around his chest, forced him to lean over the bath just in time for him to empty his guts.

He grimaced a bit as Arthur started coughing, groaning with each breath before a new wave hit him. "Come on, laddie." He said, stroking his back, hoping it would do something to ease his obvious discomfort.

The moron clearly hadn't eaten anything today, as all he was hoying up was alcohol and bile. It was pretty bad, but at least it would last less than the other years. He remembered one year when he couldn't get out of his duties as a country and had to have Arthur over at his, and the only food he had in the house was a bit of grimy sausage and some haggis.

He chuckled. That was probably the most hilarious year. Arthur didn't get over his hangover for almost four days, which must have been made even better thanks to the food poisoning.

He really was a great brother.

...xXx...

After a good five minutes of puking, Arthur finally eased off, kind of collapsing over Allistor's arm. Keeping him at an angle where he would get no puke on either of them, Allistor had to maneuver himself, bending his arm nearly completely backwards to grab one of the pale yellow towels while holding Arthur's entire weight up with just one hand. He grabbed a towel and moved back to his original position, shifting his brother upright and wiped away any obvious sick patches.

I'm just too good. He thought as he dumped the towel and lifted Arthur, sitting him on the toilet.

He stood, looking around the small room and sneering. He didn't remember raising his brother to be such a pussy. The place looked like it was governed by a woman, with everything set up so neatly, and the main colour of the room being a the same colour of the towel he grabbed only a second ago. Each of the tiles that covered the wall had a little picture on it, like a seashell or a fish or some shit like that, and from what he could see, his brother didn't even have bloody manly shaving cream. His shampoo or whatever was in a pink bottle that sat at the edge of the bath, and the soap was in a dish the shape of a flower for fucks sake! There was even pot-pourri in the windowsill...

He glared at Arthur who sat with his head to his chest, breathing heavily. If it turned out he had a woman, then it would be fine, but last Allistor knew, the only fuck buddy he had was that asshole France.

He sighed as his brother groaned. Well, whatever, he thought as he went to the bath. Each to their own.

Removing his sashes and jacket, he turned on the shower and got to hosing down the puke, flicking his eyes back to Arthur every now and then to make sure he was still alive.

When the shower was finally clean, he emptied Arthur's weird cleaning bucket thing (containing a few bottles of bleach, those dust things Scotland could never be bothered to use and other a few other bits and pieces that he didn't recognise) that sat by the bath and filled it with water.

Sticking the bucket next to Arthur's feet, he scooped the towel and knelt before him, forcing him to raise his head so he could get a good look at him.

"Sakes." He smirked, treating Arthur like he used to when he was raising him as he dipped part of the towel in the water and started to scrub away the dried sick and snot from his face. "You don't make it easy, do ya?"

"Huh?" Arthur's eyes were hazy, and he was probably only sobering up due to violent hacking he had done just minutes before, but it was something. At least he was talking...in a way...

Allistor sighed as he moved to the underside of Arthur's chin. England really was lucky to have him as a brother. No way would the other two ever do something like this for him.

"Nothing, eejit. Arms." He ordered like he had when Arthur was still a child. He grinned as Arthur obeyed immediately, and put down the towel to unbutton and slide off the alcohol and puke-stained shirt. "Lovely..." He said as he threw the thing on the ground and got to work on cleaning his chest.

The lad was way too skinny. He could practically see his rib cage. He made a note to check up on Arthur in a month or so, just to make sure the runt was eating properly.

Once he had finished cleaning his chest, he wiped the puke from Arthur's thighs and looked to his boxer shorts. Chances were, he brother wasn't stupid enough to get puke on his own pants, but he never knew...Arthur could be pretty dumb at times.

He was a nice brother, but he wasn't that nice. Besides, it was only one night, and it wasn't like he hadn't done slept in puke-stained boxers before.

He moved to a clean section of the towel, dipping it in the water and started to go over Arthur's face one more time.

"Why didn't it hurt?" Arthur croaked. Scotland paused, the cloth on the edge of Arthur's mouth as he gave him a confused look.

"Hurt? What do you mean, lad?"

"When I left you." He mumbled. It took Scotland a few seconds to understand what his little brother was getting at.

"Oy, oy. Let me make one thing clear here. You never left me, I let you go." His head shot up, meeting Allistor's eyes with a broken look.

"W-What?"

He chuckled again and started to wipe away what was left of the dried tears on his brothers cheeks. "You really think you would have been able to escape from me?"

Arthur opened his mouth to try and give a reply, but seemed to think against it. He dropped his gaze back to his knees, a light blush tingeing his cheeks as he gave a wan smile. "No, probably not."

"It's the same for all of us countries, though I'm pretty sure Dylan was glad to be rid of me." The raised a small smirk from Arthur, as he knew all too well how much Scotland could piss off Wales when he wanted to.

There was a moment of silence as Allistor lifted Arthur's chin, checking to see if it was completely clean. When he was sure his brothers face was puke, snot and tear free, he met his eyes again. "Look, we all have to go through it when we decide to raise another nation, it's just about knowing the right time to let them go." He started to stand, wincing slightly as his knees unlocked after kneeling for so long. "If you miss that window," He began as he moved towards the sink, "you either get a situation like Switzerland and Lichtenstein, or one like yours." He threw a glance to his brother as he started to fill the sink. "The only reason that idiot left you was because he grew too big too fast." His brother flinched at the mention of America and Allistor had to hold back his sigh.

At least his brother was now sober enough to hold a decent conversation, though he doubted he would remember it in the morning. Even though he spent many years drinking a fuck-tonne of rum, pillaging and doing whatever else pirates did, he would usually always lose his memory when he got drunk. Considering the fact he had himself, Paddy and Dylan as brothers, it was shameful how bad of a drunk he was. And yet he still did it. He had to uphold the Kirkland name, of course.

He turned off the taps and started to rinse out the towel he had been using to clean his brothers face, grimacing slightly. Even though he was known as being the fouler of the four brothers, he still had some class. Though back in the old days, the old, old days, when it was just himself and Wales, when he was also known as Alba, and when war ravaged his lands, he was really wild.

He grinned as he shook the water from his hands. Little Artie would have never survived on his own in those times. But then England grew, and became powerful, too powerful. He frowned and looked back to his brother. And that power is what lead them to nights like these, where he ended up caring for the poor bastard who still couldn't get over the fact that America had done everything he could and fought for so long to be free of him.

Well, whatever. Scotland wasn't exactly prominent when it came to worldly matters, so it gave him something to do, at least. And it was good blackmail material if he ever needed to sink that low, though, if he was being honest, he doubted he could be that heartless.

"You know, even normal humans have to go through this kind of thing. Their kids up and leave them to go and live new lives and become their own person. It's just how it is. Though it doesn't usually take the parent more than 200 years to get over it." He muttered the last line, not really sure if now was the right time to point out that Arthur had a serious complex.

He waited for a reply while drying his hands on a small towel that hung on a ring by the sink. Catching sight of a small embroidered seahorse at the bottom of it he growled. "Oh for fucks sake. Arthur!" He barked. "You -"

He stopped as he saw his brother was lightly dozing. He had intended to shout at him about his living conditions (even though there were a far sight better than his own) but this was probably the first time he had managed to get to sleep easily all week.

He sighed again as he began to slowly lift the sleeping nation into his arms without waking him. Having a little brother should never have been this hard...

He shifted through the bathroom door, managing to bang Englands foot against the frame, but thankfully, it didn't wake him. If he remembered correctly, his bedroom was on the second right at the top of the stairs, and was glad to find he had.

He should really get a prize or something for all the nifty moving he had done so far. Managing to twist the door handle while still holding up Arthur wasn't as good as the whole rum bottle thing, but it was still pretty awesome.

He was going to sit him down on the bed and make him change into his pyjamas, but the idiot had already fallen asleep, and Scotland couldn't be bothered to go through the hassle of getting a drunk England to follow his commands any longer. It was just like when he was a toddler. Though usually the little bugger always refused to do what he said until he threatened him.

The guy was such a freak that he even did that pillow thing he had seen some of the chicks he slept with do, where they buy about a million pillows and pile them all up on the bed after they make it every single morning. Scotland always thought it was fucking weird and could never understand the point...

He would have to mock him about it one day.

He sat Arthur on the side of the bed, awkwardly lying him down so that his legs hung off it from the knees down while he threw all those stupid pillows over to the other side of the room.

He picked up his brother again, ignoring the fact England was starting to wake up (he really couldn't be arsed with the whole pyjama thing now that he had already dismissed it as an option) and held him with one arm as he he threw back the covers and lifted him into bed.

"Sleep, you retard." But his words were lost on him, as England had already drifted off again.

He sighed as he ruffled Arthur's hair. Pulling the covers over him, he made sure there was a jug of water by his side, along with some paracetamol for the eventual hangover that would strike him in the morning, and then made his way to the door, kicking anything out the way that his moron brother might trip over in the night.

"Night, Artie." He said softly from the door, throwing his brother a smile that could only be found on one night of every year before the clicking off the light switch. Allistor chuckled again before moving off to clean the wreckage that Arthur always left behind.


End file.
